


Proper Grooming

by Caswingsuniverse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Some minor spoilers, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 18:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17606480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caswingsuniverse/pseuds/Caswingsuniverse
Summary: Based on a prompt from the DF Facebook Page!Dean wanders the bunker one night when he hears all the showers on in a bathroom. He's surprised to find Castiel with all the showers on, wings spread from wall to wall as he pleasures himself. Dean, amazed by the sight, has to decide what to do.





	Proper Grooming

**Author's Note:**

> Been a while since I posted a fic! Enjoy! Based on this prompt: https://www.facebook.com/groups/115057981983004/permalink/1188592487962876/

Domesticity suits the Winchester clan. Domesticity is Sam leaving stained coffee mugs, the smell of chamomile clinging to the lip, next to books he’s left unshelved. It’s Jack shuffling around the bunker with his hair in a giant fluff, hands groggily grabbing for the sugary cereal Dean’s indulged him with while watching Saturday morning cartoons. It’s Castiel grumbling over his dark roast coffee as if the angel even slept, as if an angel having a favorite coffee flavor was normal. It’s Dean swaying around the kitchen humming Led Zeppelin and Beatles songs as he makes home food: burgers made with french onions mixed in, meatloaf with a special ketchup and brown sugar glaze, french toast with just too much vanilla because Sam always liked them super sweet and now so does Jack. These boys who cut their teeth on ozone and gun metal, salt and sulfur, blood and bandages, settle like the dust on the shelves. Undisturbed and cocooned by the bunker walls. Dean can’t complain, even when the bunker feels more like a coffin. It’s better than being tucked in leather seats and Sam’s feet pressing into his shoulders and the whiskey on his Father’s breath filling his lungs and the stars shimmering on the black paint of the Impala burned into his eyes. It’s better than snapshots of small hotel rooms with brown, stained carpets and stiff mattresses. Enough images for a full deck to make a house of cards with. The life of the bunker is the final bandage to close out the memories of their scars and the darkness still waiting to snatch them away. 

 

Dean’s enjoying such domesticity as he pads along the hallways. It’s late enough that Sam has relocated to the large plush chair in the back of the library, long legs curled around some book. Jack has disappeared into his room to watch more of Star Trek so he can talk to Dean about it over breakfast. These are the times Dean enjoys walking the bunker alone, hand absently tracing over the cold stone walls, grounding him there. A reminder that he is in place, still and moving at the same time, in control. He hums an amalgamation of choruses that have been stuck in his head all afternoon. His bare feet slap soundly against the floors, a true test to if they need to mop again. He goes past the bedrooms, towards the shower room attached to the storage room Sam converted into a “personal gym.” Dean rarely uses this shower room, preferring the intense pressure of the shower closer to his room or the large claw-foot tub. This one is large, a series of lockers and a single wall of showers. There are no dividers, just a simple white wall with each shower head about 4 feet apart. It reminds Dean of high school gyms, a thought he doesn’t necessarily enjoy while spending some much needed personal time. 

 

However, he’s drawn to it now. A soft roar of water echoes through the hall as if all 7 of the showerheads are on. Dean’s brow furrows and he reaches into his bathrobe pocket. His hand curls around his silver switchblade. It’s ridiculous for that many shower heads to be running with only four people in the bunker. He presses himself to the wall as he approaches the door. It’s a swing door that used to have a squeak before Sam fixed it with WD-40. Teasing open the door with his toes, Dean peeks inside. 

 

Castiel stands in the middle of the space, head tilted back so that water streams through his hair, down his temples, cheekbones, jaw, and throat. Spread from wall to wall are the angel’s wings, shimmering as water trickles along the feathers. A gasp catches in Dean’s throat, surprised at the sight of Castiel’s exposed wings. He doesn’t get much time to consider this divine marvel, however, when Castiel’s lips part to release a short huff dangerously close to sounding like a whimper. Dean’s eyes widen when he realizes what he sees. Castiel trails a hand over his chest, the other palming his dick. Dean pulls back, shoving his back against the cold wall behind him. His chest heaves out a sigh, a weak attempt to calm the tremble claiming muscle group after muscle group. A sudden chill tingles down his back, raising goosebumps on his skin. His heart skips at a hard tempo in his throat as sudden dry mouth causes him to lick his lips. He just found Castiel washing his wings and jerking off in the communal shower. Dean’s spent his fair share of time quickly and quietly rubbing one off in the few moments of true privacy in shared motel rooms, but what he just stumbled upon is a full out spectacle. Something out of a goddamn portrait. 

 

Since Castiel crawled out of the Empty with his still uncertain grace, Dean noticed how much more human his best friend acted. He drove, ate, laundered his clothes, meditated when Dean and Sam slept, watched Netflix, even showered. Something about this normalcy, this comfort of familiarity, stroked the flame inside the dark cave of Dean’s actual desires. Dean always admired the angel from afar, his alienness and assertion in battle and the way Dean could stop all that divine power with the touch of his palm consumed Dean from time to time. It’s a feeling he knows, one he felt when he first saw Cassie and Lisa, when he found himself eye to eye with another man at a bar and in his bedroom. He couldn’t contain it forever, especially after Castiel fucking died. He suddenly understood the pain John suffered through when they lost Mary, how the longing for blood and bourbon could consume his every thought until he thought he would implode with grief. But this version of Castiel, one that is still so distinctly powerful yet fucks like a human, this is the Castiel Dean influenced. The Castiel Dean rebuilt just as Castiel rebuilt him in God’s faith. 

 

Closing his eyes does little to erase the image from Dean’s mind. Instead, it becomes more vivid. How the water glitters because Castiel only turned on half the lights, how the shadow of his wings shivers with each wave of pleasure, the shine of his parted lips, the strength of those flexed knuckles as Castiel strokes himself. Dean bites his lip and thumps his head against the concrete wall. He knows he should leave, imagines himself hurrying back to his own bedroom to spend the first part of his night unspooling every lovely thought about his angel as he takes himself to orgasm. But something locks him into the spot. The middle of a jerk off session is not the time to announce his feelings for the angel, hardly the romantic scene he’d daydreamed about on the long drives between hunts. Dean nods to himself, resolving himself to tell Castiel tomorrow. To tell him how much he wants to be woken up by Castiel’s cold feet touching his under the covers, how much he wants to see that nest of black hair in the morning, how much he wants to hold hands with an angel that’s fought off Heaven and survived, how much he wants to press Castiel against that shower wall and kiss every daydream into his skin. Dean shudders, pushing away from the bathroom when a loud whine leaks through the door. A longing call of his name. 

 

Dean stares at the door, the wood the only thing separating him from the scarred grace and beauty Dean loves. His knuckles raise and rap against the wood. 

 

The heavy breathing Dean caught only whispers of cuts out with a small sound of surprise. Dean doesn’t expect Castiel to answer, but still doesn’t open the door. Instead, he leans his forehead against the doorjamb, eyes closed as he calls, “Cas? It’s Dean.”

 

Suddenly, all the showers are off and Dean knows Castiel has curled his wings away, hidden himself in shame and embarrassment. Dean’s done the same, covered himself, fingertips tingling with the need to cry because he came thinking about men he couldn’t want, people he couldn’t have a life with, things he couldn’t do. Dean rests a flat palm against the wood. He wants to comfort the angel. “Can I come in?”

 

The moment of silence after the question makes Dean’s palms sweat. His bathrobe suddenly feels too heavy over his t-shirt and boxers. Castiel’s soft answer makes his heart hiccup against his ribs. “Yes, Dean.” 

 

Dean pushes the door open, eyes immediately scanning the blank walls for the wings he just saw. They’re gone, as he guessed, ghosts lingering in his vision like sunspots. He forces himself to not frown in disappointment, especially when he finds that Castiel has wrapped a damp towel around his waist. Castiel clears his throat when Dean doesn’t say anything after entering the room. The hunter leans against the lockers and stares at the angel. 

 

“Can I help you with something, Dean. I was showering.” Castiel’s voice hints at a slight cut, at annoyance. It’s too watered down though, the angel unable to look directly at the hunter.

 

“Do you always run all the showerheads?” Dean asks, meeting Castiel’s eyes. 

 

Castiel stammers for a moment, pushing the wet curls of his hair back behind his ear. “No. No, I don’t. Only when… I need to groom my wings.”

 

Dean’s lied his way through his entire life. Sported fake ids and backstories, told teachers his bruises and scrapes were nothing but playground fights, told his brother their dad was coming back, told his Father that everything was fine. So when Castiel’s words taste almost truthful, Dean hums. The angel startles at the noise, looking between Dean’s eyes with raised eyebrows. 

 

“Do you need help?”

 

“E-excuse me?” Castiel says, hand gripping his towel to his waist harder. Dean offers a smile and walks closer to his friend. 

 

“Do you need help with your wings. I’m sure you can’t reach everything yourself, and I’m pretty gentle with my hands.” Dean knows he’s teasing, but the twitch of Castiel’s lip and the hitch of his breath are worth it. Had Castiel really missed all the stares? All the pulses of longing Dean sent through prayer? All the steps into his personal space? 

 

Castiel swallows and shakes his head. “Dean, this isn’t necessary. Please don’t feel as if--”

 

Dean holds up a hand and walks closer to the angel, stopping the sentence. “Cas. I’m bein honest here. I want to. I wanna see your wings and I wanna help you. I wanna make you feel good.” 

 

Blushing looks good on the angel, the pink contrasting with the circles under his eyes and the blue of his irises. Castiel looks away from Dean’s honest gaze, shoulders arched up and back hunched. “You saw,” he mumbles thickly. 

 

Dean raises his hands in surrender, afraid that touching the angel will cause a panic. “Yes. I accidentally walked in on you. But Cas, that don’t change what I feel. I do wanna make ya feel good. And from what I heard, you want me to.” 

 

Castiel’s eyebrows furrow, lips pursed in what Dean can only comprehend as an angry, self-righteous pout. “You shouldn’t assume such things, Dean. People will think you’re taking advantage of them.”

 

The words are soft with sarcasm, lilting back into comfort, even affection. Dean smiles. His hand sways out to brush their knuckles together. Castiel’s grip on his towel loosens. 

 

“Cas?” 

 

The angel finally looks up from the wall, blue eyes wide and wondering. Dean wipes away a stray droplet of water tracking down Castiel’s temple. Castiel leans into the touch, eyes still stuck on Dean. “I want more than to just make you happy.”

 

Castiel’s head tilts, eyes squinting. The expression sparks the gravel-toned internal voice Dean has for the angel: I don’t have patience for your ridiculous human riddles. 

 

Dean’s tired of riddles and lies and spinning his wheels. If living like this with his family suits him, if the universe shoved them back together again, it means that he needs to pull his head out his ass. Sam always asked if he’d ever settle down, maybe with someone who knows the life. Who better than his own former guardian angel. 

 

“I want to be the reason you’re happy too. I want to be the reason you feel good. The reason your shivering in the shower moaning. I want this for real, Cas. Can I do this for you, please?”

 

Dean strokes under Castiel’s eye, watching it waiver. The hunter’s prepared for rejection despite what he heard earlier. Just because Castiel wants him in the heat of the moment doesn’t mean he’ll say yes; doesn’t mean they’ll be able to make this work. The fear of blowing down the house of cards forces them all to hold their breath. They may suffocate, but at least things still feel solid. 

 

Castiel takes a deep breath. The movement expands in his jaw, muscles fluttering under Dean’s hand. He nods. “Of course, Dean.”

 

Dean tilts the angel’s head back as he slides closer into his personal space. Castiel’s skin pulses with the warmth of the hot water. Dean’s gaze trails from the open sky of Castiel’s eyes, down the sharp cliff of his nose, to his plush lips. “Mean it, Cas. I’m not fucking around.”

 

He reads the lips who breathed life back into him, “I want you, Dean. Please.” 

 

There’s a certain silence before lightning strikes, an electrified stillness that condenses the air right before heat consumes it all in its path. In the space between hunter and angel is the exact pattern of a lightning bolt, all important things trapped in this space and drawing them together until the flash of their coming together. Dean’s had many first kisses in his almost four decades of life, has found the promised exhilaration of each intoxicating. Kissing Castiel feels like this multiple times over. The touch of their lips, the wetness of Castiel’s chest soaking through his shirt, the way the angel grips his bicep, unearths something in his chest. It’s as if Castiel re-carved his ribs to spell out how they love each other, the promise of everything they could have been and everything they will be going forward.

 

Dean wraps a hand around Castiel’s waist, calloused hand sliding over the dimples on Castiel’s lower back. He hums when Castiel shivers, the angel’s back arching to press into his touch. They linger here. Castiel kisses like he flies, certain he won’t fall. The press of lips against teeth softens into a warmer exchange, small strokes of skin against skin that sparkles their nerves.  
When Castiel smiles, Dean can see the crinkle around the angel’s eyes and the exposure of his gums and the crinkle of his nose in his mind. He kisses Castiel’s chin and along his jaw as Castiel giggles. The angel’s hand slides up his bicep and into Dean’s hair. His fingers pull gently, carting through the blonde strands and leaving it all standing up. Dean sighs through his nose as he drags his lips over the spot under Castiel’s ear. Castiel rocks onto his toes with a soft sigh, holding Dean against his neck as the hunter thumbs over his hip bones. 

 

In his imagination, Dean always thought that he would rush this opportunity, too eager and on edge to take his time. But the lazy warmth of steam and Castiel’s body pull him into a hazy sort of love. He relaxes into it, taking his hands off Castiel’s skin only to shake off his robe. Castiel huffs a laugh at the shaking motion Dean does but presses his throat into the hunter’s teeth. A short moan blooms in his chest and Dean grins, reminded of what drew him inside. He pulls back, kissing under Castiel’s eye. “Show me yer wings, Castiel.”

 

The words quiver in Castiel’s chest, the syllables of his own name filling him with light. The smile on his hunter’s face, the softness around his eyes, it strikes him. More beautiful than looking upon God at his creation. Castiel unfurls his wings. They stretch, filling the space around them. When Castiel wraps the appendages around them, Dean turns to see every inch. The inky color reflects different blues, each shade different depending on the angle. He reaches out and thumbs the arch of the joint. It jerks like a knee, causing Dean to chuckle. “Sensitive, angel?”

 

Castiel takes Dean’s other hand, eyes hooded as his wing leans into Dean’s gentle tracing of his feather pattern. “Very.”

 

“The water must feel amazing,” Dean mumbles more to himself, palm smoothing over a patch of feathers raised in Castiel’s rush to hide himself. 

 

“Not as good as this,” Castiel offers, leaning into Dean’s arm to stay upright. The hunter pauses, looking at the content expression. 

 

“Why not have both,” Dean says, pressing a hand to Castiel’s chest so the angel stands and moves back to the showers. “Turn em back on.” 

 

Before the angel can even feel dejected by Dean shoving him away, the hunter is tugging his shirt over his head. Castiel’s wings tremble, arching higher. The feathers brush together in a soft whisper, a sound that amuses Dean. He kicks off his boxers before stepping back into the angel’s space. He grips Castiel’s hips and walks them back into the showers. Castiel drops his towel, almost tripping over it when Dean keeps moving him backward. Dean raises an eyebrow, inspiring Castiel to use his grace to turn them all back on. The pressure of the water against his alert wings sends a shockwave of want through him. He groans, eyes half closing.

 

Dean rubs his palms over Castiel’s chest, fingers spread, as he kisses Cas again. He slides his  
hands up over Castiel’s chest to shoulders and down to the angel’s hands. Fingers interlocked, he squeezes. “Why can I see them now?”

 

Castiel licks his lips, wings shifting their weight unconsciously. “My grace hasn’t fully regenerated. It takes time to restore, especially since I’m away from Heaven. It makes it easy to contain their visage.” 

 

Nodding along with the explanation, Dean carts his hand through the feathers close to Castiel’s left shoulder blade. The angel moans, a full sound like a cork popping loose from a wine bottle. Dean swallows as Castiel presses into his hand. “They’re amazin.”

 

“Thank you,” Castiel gasps out, hand reaching out to grab Dean’s neck and pull him into another kiss. Dean feels tempted to lean their combined weight into the shower wall so he can really press into Castiel’s wings and explore his sides. The curve of Castiel’s arms and thighs are impossible to ignore though, demanding the full attention of Dean’s touch. Dean knows Castiel won’t admit it, but he preens under the attention, leaning into every moment of contact. Dean mouths at Castiel’s throat, tasting the ghost of the ocean scented shampoo they all started using. It tangs on his tongue, but quickly disappears. Castiel tilts his head and grabs Dean’s waist to pull him closer. They both shiver, the heat enveloping them nothing compared to the bonfires trapped under their skin. 

 

Dean hums, wandering hands skimming over the curve of Castiel’s ass. The sensation, the risqué edge to the movement, startles the angel. His wings flap lightly, spraying water across the space. Smirking, Dean squeezes the muscle. Castiel yanks on Dean’s hair in retaliation, a perfect plan until Dean groans at the pain. Castiel’s instantly pulling Dean closer, bodies sticking and sliding from the water. When the heat of their dicks touch, both moan. Dean rolls his hips on reflex, a slow motion to drag out the friction. Castiel pulls on Dean’s hair again, gasping. “Dean.”

 

“Yes, darlin,” Dean drawls as he repeats the motion. 

 

Castiel clings to Dean’s shoulders, fingers digging into his muscles as his feathers circle them. The press of Dean’s dick and stomach against him, the bow lips kissing along his skin, the thigh pressing between his legs, it all barrels through him. His grace roars, eyes flickering with light. “Dean, please. I don’t do this often.”

 

Dean feels how Castiel arches his body taut. Dean blindly buries his hand in Castiel’s feathers, massaging the muscles and stroking the feathers as he guides them through the motions. His voice drips between them like honey. “It’s okay, Cas. I got ya. Yer perfect. Shit, baby. Wanna see how yer wings shake when ya come all over us.”

 

With everything that’s happened to them recently, Castiel hadn’t spent much time contemplating what he liked and disliked about sex. The pleasure of grooming simply overwhelmed him in this moment, impossible to ignore in his human vessel. Yet, even in the few moments he gave thought to what being with Dean would be like, he never imagined that it would be like being consumed by the sun. His nerves explode, muscles drawn tight as he implodes. His wings arch and flap as he rocks against Dean’s thigh until he’s too sensitive to move. The words release him from the tense before, tumbling him into the certainty of the after. The anxiety of orgasm washes away when Dean catches him. While the rush of endorphins does wonders on his physical body, his grace still presses closer to Dean, wanting to soothe the need within his charge. 

 

Dean strokes Castiel’s sides as the angel slumps, wings falling about them like a weighted blanket. Castiel whines softly, letting his body fall back against the wall so he can look completely at Dean. Both their hips are tacky with his come, which makes him blush. Dean pants, taking in Castiel’s appearance in a similar manner. The hunter shifts on his feet until the angel takes his hand. Castiel pulls him into his embrace again, kissing him. His tongue presses against the chapped connection between them until Dean lets him in. He traces Dean’s canines, the bone and muscle he built from nothing but his own grace. Dean melts into the gentle hold Castiel has on the curve of his skull. 

 

As they kiss, Castiel takes Dean in hand. Hips buck forward and Dean moans into their kiss, begging for release. While Castiel has little practice, he knows what feels good. As he strokes over Dean’s dick, thumb teasing the slit to spread precome across their skin, Dean breaks their kiss to breathe. Castiel smiles as the hunter pants against his lips. 

 

“Shit, Cas, please,” Dean gasps, rocking into Castiel’s hand. 

 

Castiel kisses Dean’s temple, stroking the base of his skull with his thumb. “I’m here, beloved. Come for me.” 

 

Dean moans against Castiel’s cheek, a broken syllable of Castiel’s name as he rocks into Castiel’s fist and comes. The angel hums happily as Dean leans into him. His arms wrap around Dean’s waist as Dean lets his head drop to Castiel’s shoulder. They stand together for a few moments, Castiel rubbing circles into the small of Dean’s back and Dean occasionally kissing Castiel’s shoulder, until the water turns cool. Castiel shivers. Kissing Dean’s hair he asks, “Will you come to bed with me?”

 

“Can’t pass up the opportunity to use yer wings as a blanket. Bet they’re warm,” Dean mumbles sleepily into Castiel’s skin. He’s still warm despite the cool water. 

 

Castiel chuckles, turning off the water and drying them off with a thought. “Let’s go to bed, then. I’ll watch over you.”

 

Dean hums. The sound rumbles between them like the impala’s tires on the highway. It’s a sure sound, one of comfort. Dean presses closer when Castiel teleports them to his bedroom. His eyes droop as he whispers before falling asleep, “You always do.”


End file.
